Mr. Eustace St. Clair Simpkins preferred to have his letters addressed
"E. St. Clair-Simpkins, Esq.," as if his second Christian name were
part of his surname. He belonged by birth to the _haute aristocratie_,
and believed that the use of a hyphen made this fact plain to the
members of the middle classes with whom he came in contact. He was a
man of thirty-five years of age, but looked slightly older, because his
hair was receding rapidly from the left side of his forehead. He had
enjoyed, for a time, the education afforded by one of the greatest of
the English public schools; but at the age of sixteen, being then
classed with boys so small that he looked ridiculous among them, he was
removed at the special request of the headmaster. A private tutor,
heavily paid, took him in hand, but was no more successful with him
than the schoolmasters had been. At the age of eighteen he was found
unfit to pass any of the examinations which open the way to gentlemanly
employment. Various jobs were found for him by his desponding parents,
but on every occasion he was returned to them politely. He drifted at
last into an Irish land-agent's office. Mr. Tempest was a successful
man of business, and managed estates in various parts of the country
from his Dublin office. He was under an obligation to a London
solicitor, whose wife was the sister of Mrs. Simpkins, the mother of
Eustace St. Clair. He felt that he could not very well refuse to give
the young man such a chance as a clerkship afforded. Things went on
fairly satisfactorily until Mr. Simpkins conceived the idea of marrying
his employer's daughter. He reasoned, quite rightly, that Miss
Tempest, being an only child, was likely to have a substantial fortune.
Mr. Tempest, unimpressed by the hyphened St. Clair, was unwilling to
allow the courtship to proceed. He sent Mr. Simpkins down to Ballymoy,
and charged him with the management of such parts of the Buckley estate
as were not already sold to tenants.
Mr. Simpkins, for the first time in his life, felt that he had found a
position which really suited him. There was very little work to do.
He received the ground rents of the town of Ballymoy; saw that Ballymoy
House was kept in repair and the grounds in tolerable order; and let
the fishing of the river every year by means of advertisements in
sporting papers. Many men would have found the life dull, but Mr.
Simpkins had a busy and vigorous mind of a sort not uncommon among
incompetent people. By temperament he was a reformer of minor abuses,
and Ballymoy afforded him an almost unique opportunity for the exercise
of his powers. There were, of course, difficulties. The inhabitants
of Ballymoy, long unaccustomed to the presence of a reformer amongst
them, had drifted into quiet, easy ways of living. Mr. Simpkins, who
was not lacking in a certain quality of quiet persistence, troubled
every one with fine impartiality, and became exceedingly unpopular in
Ballymoy. The Resident Magistrate hated being obliged to enforce
unnecessary laws such as that which forbids cyclists to ride on
footpaths, and that which ordains the carrying of lighted lanterns on
carts at night. The postman, at the other end of the official scale,
liked loitering on his rounds, and had adopted a pleasant habit of
handing on letters to any wayfarer who might be supposed to be
proceeding in the direction of the place to which the letters were
addressed. Every one with a public duty of any sort to perform was
stimulated by Mr. Simpkins, and consequently came to hate him.
After a while Mr. Doyle, on whom, as chief citizen, the duty naturally
devolved, got up a petition to Mr. Tempest. The necessity for removing
Mr. Simpkins was presented in the strongest terms. Mr. Tempest, who
was a man of wide experience and kindly heart, sympathised with Mr.
Doyle and the others who signed the petition, but he did not recall Mr.
Simpkins. He knew of no place in Ireland further from Dublin than
Ballymoy is; and it appeared to him above all things desirable to keep
Mr. Simpkins at a distance. It was better, in his opinion, that
Ballymoy should suffer, than that his own house should be haunted on
Sundays and his office disorganised on week-days by Mr. Simpkins. He
acknowledged the receipt of the Ballymoy petition, and promised,
mendaciously, to consider the matter.
Meldon drove into Ballymoy on the first morning of his holiday, and
went straight to Mr. Simpkins' house. He left a card there, and then
walked on to the office. Mr. Simpkins was in the office, and Meldon
greeted him with a warmth which seemed actually affectionate. Mr.
Simpkins was surprised, and rubbed his hand, which had been hurt by the
hearty way in which Meldon shook it.
"Is there," he asked, in a puzzled tone, "anything that I can do for
you?"
"Nothing," said Meldon; "nothing whatever. If there was I'm sure you'd
do it, and I shouldn't hesitate to ask you. But there isn't. I simply
called in to have a chat. You won't mind if I smoke, will you?"
"I never smoke in my office," said Simpkins. "I dislike free and easy
and slipshod ways of doing business."
Meldon filled and lit his pipe.
"You're perfectly right," he said. "There's nothing impresses the
intelligent stranger so unfavourably as the smell of tobacco in an
office when he comes into it in the hope of doing business with a
competent man. I wish you would impress your idea on that subject, and
I may say a good many other subjects, on the people of this town. They
are lamentably deficient in what I may call the etiquette of commercial
life; and yet all these little points count for a lot. You and I know
that."
Simpkins hesitated. He was at first inclined to be angry. Meldon was
smoking vigorously, and his tobacco was of the kind described as
"full-flavoured." But the remarks about the etiquette of business were
certainly sound. Mr. Simpkins really believed that he had a mission to
teach manners and method to the people of Ballymoy.
"Would you mind telling me," he said at last, "who you are?"
"Not in the least," said Meldon; "I shall be quite pleased. At the
same time I think I ought to point out to you that, if you'd been on
speaking terms with Major Kent, you'd have heard all about me weeks
ago, and very likely would have been asked to dinner to meet me last
night. Why have you quarrelled with the poor Major? He's a nice
enough sort of man, and most people find him easy enough to get on
with."
"It was he who quarrelled with me. I had no intention--"
"So it was. I remember that now; something about fishing, wasn't it?
Curious how people will lose their tempers about ridiculous little
trifles. That's the worst of places like this. The people who have
never lived anywhere else become irritable and take offence about
nothing, simply because their minds are cut off from wider interests.
You and I, now, know that no fish in the world, however large, is worth
fighting about. We wouldn't, either of us, mind a bit if some other
fellow came along and hooked the whale which we had marked down as our
private prey."
Simpkins was puzzled again. The doctrine about fishing rights struck
him as slightly socialistic. It might possibly be applicable in the
case of whales, but society could scarcely survive as an organised
whole if many men regarded the possession of salmon as of no
importance. At the same time he was pleased; it gratified him
immensely to be hailed as a fellow citizen of a larger world.
"Would you mind," he said, speaking in quite a friendly tone, "telling
me your name?"
"Not in the least," said Meldon. "I said so before. As a matter of
fact, so far from having any wish to conceal my name from you, I went
round to your house before I called here and left my card on you.
You'll find it there when you get back. I always like to be strict in
the observance of the rules of civilised society. I particularly
dislike the slack ways into which people in places like this are
inclined to drift. I must say for the Major, he's not as bad as the
rest in that respect. He always dresses for dinner."
"So do I."
"I'm glad to hear it. That ought to be a bond of union between you and
the Major. You must be the only two men in Ballymoy who do. By the
way, have you met Miss King?"
"No. She arrived yesterday, I hear; but I haven't seen her."
"You ought to go up and call on her at once. You'll like her, I'm
sure. She's very good-looking."
He paused for a moment. The announcement did not seem to excite
Simpkins' interest. He was, indeed, not of the temperament which is
strongly moved by beauty or personal charm.
"She's also very rich," said Meldon.
"I thought she must be pretty well off when she took Ballymoy House."
"She is. And what's more, she's uncommonly well connected. Her uncle
is an earl. I forget at this moment what his exact title is; but I
know he's an earl, and I have it on very good authority that he's
likely to be made a marquis quite soon."
He paused, and was gratified to observe that Simpkins appeared to be
greatly interested by this information about Miss King. He pursued his
advantage at once.
"I shall call on her myself," he said, "though there's not really much
use in my making myself agreeable to her. I'm married already. The
Major would have told you that, too, if you'd been on speaking terms
with him. You really must make it up with the Major, Simpkins. I hope
to see a good deal of you while I'm in Ballymoy, and it will be most
inconvenient for me if you won't speak to the Major while I'm staying
in his house."
"Did you say that you knew Miss King?"
"Not intimately," said Meldon; "at least not very intimately. I
travelled down in the train with her yesterday, and we had a pleasant
chat together. If I wasn't married already--but there's no use talking
about that. And I don't for a moment suppose that the Major will care
about having a try. He's a confirmed old bachelor. Though it would be
a right good thing for him if he did. Miss King must have a whole pot
of money, and she looks to me the sort of woman whom it would be quite
easy to marry. I'm afraid I must be going now. I'm so glad I caught
you, Simpkins. I've heard a lot about you during the short time I've
been in Ballymoy; and I may say, without the least wish to flatter,
that I was most anxious to meet you. Good-bye, and be sure to call on
Miss King. It's a pity to think of that poor girl all alone in a great
barrack of a place like Ballymoy House, without a civilised creature to
speak to."
Meldon left the Office very well satisfied with himself. He went next
into the hotel. The day was hot, and there was very little going on in
the town. The streets were almost empty, for the country people were
busy on their farms. The hotel appeared to be entirely deserted. The
waiter had left the coffee room, and gone to visit a friend in the
police barrack. The barmaid, after finishing one penny novel, had gone
into the shop next door to borrow another from the milliner. Meldon
penetrated to the kitchen, and found an untidy maid asleep, very
uncomfortably, on an upright chair. She woke with a start when he
banged a frying-pan against the front of the oven.
"I hope I haven't startled you," he said politely. "I shall be greatly
obliged if you will tell me where Mr. Doyle is to be found."
"He's within in his own room; and what's more, the doctor's along with
him, and he did say that nobody was to be let next or nigh him by
reason of his being busy."
"If he's busy," said Meldon, "he's the only man in Ballymoy that is,
excepting myself; and any way that prohibition doesn't apply to me.
I'm an old friend. I'll just step in and see him. You needn't
announce me. If you like you can go to sleep again; but if I were you
I'd be beginning to get the dinner. It's near twelve o'clock."
"Is it, then?"
"It is. Is your name Bridget or Mary?"
"It's Sabina they call me."
"You're not a bad-looking girl, Sabina; and if you'd attend to your
business instead of going to sleep in the middle of the day, you might
die a rich woman yet."
"I would not, then. How would the like of me be rich?"
"You certainly won't be," said Meldon, "if you don't do your work."
"The potatoes is in the pot," said Sabina.
"They may be; but Mr. Doyle will be looking for more than potatoes at
dinner time. He doesn't look as if he lived entirely on potatoes."
Sabina grinned. Doyle was a portly man.
"It won't take me long to fry a couple of rashers," she said, "once the
grease is hot."
"And is fried bacon and potatoes all you're going to give the poor man?
What wages does he pay you?"
"Six pounds."
"Very well. Now listen to me, Sabina. You put your back into it and
cook the man a decent dinner. Give him soup, and then a nicely done
chop with a dish of spinach and some fried potatoes. After that a
sweet omelette--"
"Glory be to God!" said Sabina.
"And then a little savoury, tomato and olives, beaten to a cream, with
the yolk of a hard-boiled egg served up on toast, cut into dice."
"Arrah, what talk!" said Sabina.
"Get him accustomed to that sort of dinner for three weeks or a month,
and then ask him for a rise in your wages. He'll give it to you."
"He would not."
"He would. Any man would. The mistake you make is half-starving him.
That makes his temper bad, and--"
"I wouldn't say then that ever I heard a cross word out of his mouth,"
said Sabina, "unless it might be when he'd be talking of Mr. Simpkins
or the like."
"I suppose he swears then," said Meldon.
"He does terrible."
"I don't wonder. I never swear myself. Being a clergyman, I can't, of
course. But from what I've seen of Mr. Simpkins, and from what I've
heard about him, I should think he'd make most men swear. Do you know
him at all intimately, Sabina?"
"I do not; but the girl that's with him beyond in the house is a cousin
of my own, and I hear her talking about him. She does be saying that
the like of him for nonsensical goings on she never seen. She--"
"Thank you," said Meldon. "I don't want to hear your cousin's views of
Mr. Simpkins' domestic arrangements. She's red-haired, if she's the
girl that opened the door to me a while ago, and I never knew one of
her colour that spoke the truth."
Sabina was loyal to her family. She resented Meldon's remark.
"If you were to put me on my oath," she said, "I wouldn't call the hair
that's on your own head black, nor yet yellow."
"My hair," said Meldon, "is what's called auburn; and in any case I
have more strength of character than to be driven into untruthfulness
by the colour of my hair. Did you say it was Dr. O'Donoghue was inside
with Mr. Doyle?"
"It is," said Sabina.
"I suppose, now, he isn't particularly fond of Mr. Simpkins either."
Sabina grinned broadly.
"From the pleasant way in which you're smiling," said Meldon, "I think
I may take it for granted that Dr. O'Donoghue wouldn't go far out of
his way to find out exactly the kind of medicine that would cure Mr.
Simpkins if by any chance he happened to fall sick."
"He would not. But they do say he'd poison him if he got the chance."
"I don't want him to do that. I should be very sorry if he did. All I
want to be sure of is that the doctor wouldn't put himself out to cure
Mr. Simpkins if anybody else poisoned him."
"The Lord save us!" said Sabina. "Is it murder you're thinking of?"
"It is not," said Meldon. "Don't get any foolish idea of that kind
into your head. I'm not a murderer. I'm merely putting what is called
a supposititious case, with a view to finding out what Dr. O'Donoghue's
real feelings are. I don't suppose you know what a supposititious case
is?"
"I do not. It was a backward place where I was reared, and I wasn't
kept to school regular; and what's more, the Irish wasn't taught in
them times."
"It wouldn't have helped you much if it was," said Meldon. "A
supposititious case is the same thing, very nearly, as a hypothetical
proposition. It consists of two parts, a protasis and an apodosis.
For instance--"
"It's laughing at me you are."
"It is not, but trying to educate you a little. For instance, I should
be putting a hypothetical case if I were to say, 'Supposing you cooked
the dinner I described every day for Mr. Doyle--'"
"I couldn't do it then, for I wouldn't be fit."
"That's exactly what makes it a supposititious case," said Meldon.
"Now perhaps you'll understand that I don't intend to poison Mr.
Simpkins myself."
"Nor the doctor won't do it for you," said Sabina.
"You said a minute ago that he would."
"He would not, for he's a nice gentleman, as simple and innocent as a
child, only an odd time when his temper would be riz."
"Any way he won't be asked to. Good-bye, Sabina. I'll look in and see
you next time I'm passing. Don't let that red-haired cousin of yours
be putting phosphorous paste, or any of those patent rat poisons, into
Mr. Simpkins' food. She'll get herself into trouble if she does."